


Have fun stormin' da castle.

by RedBlazer



Series: From Daddy to Dating in 2 Seconds Flat [2]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Brunch, Daddy Kink, Dom/sub Undertones, Eliot Waugh's Canonically Huge Dick, Exhibitionism, Gentle Dom Eliot Waugh, M/M, Margo is a saint, Quentin Coldwater's Oral Fixation, Relationships moving at the speed of light, Semi-Public Sex, lol they're uhauling already I can tell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-11
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-17 06:14:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29345724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedBlazer/pseuds/RedBlazer
Summary: A little sound tumbles out of his lips before he can stop himself and Quentin freezes, sure at that moment they’re going to be arrested and his dad will have to bail him out of jail. Like meeting Eliot in a threesome isn’t slutty enough, now he’s going to wind up arrested on their first date with Eliot’s dick in his mouth. What’s their third date going to be? Joining the Mile High Club? Sex in a bush in Central Park? Or against a plate glass window along the High Line?
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Series: From Daddy to Dating in 2 Seconds Flat [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2155497
Comments: 30
Kudos: 122





	Have fun stormin' da castle.

**Author's Note:**

> LOL I HAD TO LET ELIOT COME.
> 
> You should probably read the part before this for it to make sense!
> 
> Thank you so much to grimweather, rubick, and hoko_onchi for the beta and encouragement!

It’s the morning after his prematurely ended threesome with Margo and Eliot. Quentin’s tucked under Eliot’s arm on one side of a booth eating overpriced brioche french toast and by this point the server’s just left a whole carafe of mimosas on the table so she doesn’t have to keep topping them up. 

Is Quentin mildly mortified that he spent the evening prior naked and letting them both order him around? Yes. Had he woken up absurdly early this morning to pick the exact right combination of black jeans and his one nice sweater? Yes. Is he having an out of body experience about how _well_ this is going, how much he’s being drawn in by Eliot, letting himself open up to the idea that _Quentin wants to date Eliot?_

It’s a big, fat _yes._

They’ve made their small talk about what Eliot does for a living; interior designer for magicians—interesting—and Quentin’s job; teaching what is effectively hitting the ‘CTRL-Z’ on broken shit. Eliot and Margo work together, putting architectural spellwork on the homes of the rich (and famous, like the Olsen Twins— _who knew they were magicians?)_ and furnishing them with the most lavish furniture on the market. Of course Quentin knew vaguely what Margo did for a living, but hearing them ping pong back and forth about their clients and travel across the globe makes Quentin suddenly feel like the secondhand furniture he cobbled together when Brakebills offered him his little A frame cabin isn’t going to cut it. Maybe Eliot will find his complete lack of taste charming?

He wonders if he should be taking this slower, if he’s going to show all his cards too soon and scare Eliot away. What if he’s lost his really good thing with Margo and Eliot doesn’t end up working out? What if Quentin’s brain breaks again and he’s not fun to be around or get out of bed? What if Eliot realizes just how needy Quentin can be and just _disappears?_ What if—Quentin stops himself. He can’t know if _any_ of those things will come to pass. He’s not an oracle. And if he were, time is malleable and free choice splits them into a million-billion alternate realities every day. There are a _billion_ other Quentins out there on different paths, he just has to be the one in this reality, under Eliot’s arm, taking a chance.

Because what if it turns out to be amazing?

Maybe he and Eliot have just gotten over the hump—no pun intended—of awkwardly establishing physical intimacy. He’s got Margo to thank there for a number of reasons. It’s only because they worked together on getting him confident enough to act on his fantasies and embrace his submissive side that he even said ‘yes’ to last night. And Margo’s gorgeous and fascinating and any number of other things that would make her an amazing partner. But she’d never been his girlfriend. The difference between her and Eliot might just be that Quentin wants to spend a staggering amount of time with Eliot doing _nothing._ Even just sharing the same room and breathing the same air. Somehow Eliot’s fashioned a key that’s bypassed all of Quentin’s locks that shut him out from the possibility of dating.

And being a submissive’s taught Quentin that nothing happens without his say, he’s the one who controls his destiny ultimately. So sure, being vulnerable enough to text Eliot last night so he could see him _today_ was a touch needy, but it seems like Eliot’s into that. 

Over too many glasses of champagne, the three of them talk about movies and music, how New York is appallingly expensive and crawling with yuppies. Eliot knows how Margo and Quentin met—he knows a little too much about Quentin already, since Margo is an unrepentant gossip and Eliot’s even worse.

“I’ve been begging her to meet you for longer than I’d care to admit.” Eliot gives him a squeeze.

Quentin trills inside.

He’s definitely going to ask Eliot to tell him all about what Margo said about him. If she gave Eliot specific recaps of their scenes and that’s what peaked Eliot’s interest.

“You’re kidding.” Quentin shakes his head. He’s fiddling with the cuff of Eliot’s shirt like a maniac. _“Margo,_ we could have met sooner?” he barely stops it from coming out as an actual whine.

Margo rolls her eyes. She’s devouring a massive plate of Eggs Benedict. _“Puh-lease,_ I wasn’t gonna bring up a third party until I knew it wouldn’t scare you away forever. You’re squirrely. It was for your own benefit. Plus, a bitch is selfish.”

“Margo, I know full well you have two other subs.” Quentin argues. Eliot smirks and pointedly takes a bite of his bagel. “Another one? You picked up someone else?”

Margo shrugs, “I like having _options.”_

It’s never bugged him—that Margo had other subs around. He’s seen their gear laid out along his restraints more than a few times. Margo has a ‘Baby Girl’ with a light pink collar and some guy named Todd who Quentin is pretty sure was a year above him at Brakebills and threw lackluster parties that never had enough snacks. Yeah, Todd deserves to be punished for _that_ alone.

“Do you?” Quentin turns, asking Eliot. And if Eliot starts rattling off a number of guys with hot-sounding names, Quentin’s going to have stop himself from stabbing the table with his fork. Wow, that makes him sound psycho. “Are you like, someone else's dom?”

Eliot shakes his head. “Not permanently. I have a few friends who pop over when they’re in town. Sometimes I run scenes at a club if I have a free night.”

“Deceptively monogamous.” Margo points at Eliot conspiratorially. Eliot rolls into a multi-point defense of his actions. Apparently he and Quentin are in about the same boat, with only 2 long-term partners for each of them. Though Quentin’s not totally sure the guy he dated for seven months junior year of undergrad counts as long term.

Having Margo there is a great buffer, she takes the pressure off Quentin to do all the talking since she and Eliot gladly bicker and snicker back and forth for hours. Quentin chimes in when he’s needed, like when he tells the story about the one and only time he tried to go to a kink club back when he and Margo started scening, thinking he’d be a self sufficient sub who could go pick up a dom for a night and just ended up calling Margo panicked in the bathroom.

When they eventually get around to talking about _last night,_ Margo huffs and Eliot dramatically says _,_ “Look, I’m just as shocked and appalled at my behavior as you are, Bambi.” 

“It’s pathetic— _no offense, Coldwater —_going from Daddy to dating in like three seconds. You two going all moony on me the moment you make eye contact. And I only got to come three times. I didn’t even get to do my grand finale!” Margo jabs her fork in their direction and Eliot’s arm curls tighter around Quentin. Quentin’s pretty sure when he left Margo had only had two orgasms. She’s resourceful.

Quentin is _giddy_ and mildly worried about that. His first dates don’t usually go this well. It’s kind of why he stopped dating in the first place and started looking up how to get his hands on a retired seeing eye dog so he could move upstate and go full hermit. But Eliot greeted him with a hug this morning and pulled him down into the booth till they were knocking knees. And Quentin just _went._ He feels weirdly at ease and _happy_ despite all the teasing Margo’s put them through since they were seated _._

Quentin’s cheeks hurt from grinning and it can’t just be from all the sugar he’s had this morning.

“I’m sorry?” Quentin frowns. Not sure that he is. He and Eliot are going to catch a matinee of _The Princess Bride_ at a one screen theater a few blocks down. Eliot’s idea. Quentin can’t even be annoyed that Eliot’s tacking a few more hours on his time away from his couch at home with the papers he needs to grade. He’s already psyching himself up for sitting beside Eliot in a darkened movie theater, like he’s in high school and every nerve in his body is aware of the potential for makeouts and bumping hands accidentally.

“Oh, I don’t blame you, puppy.” Margo pats Quentin’s hand across the table. “You’re impressionable. But I swear to god if the words ‘love at first sight’ are uttered at any point around me, I will yack all over you.”

“Noted,” Eliot agrees. “I’d be remiss if I didn’t at least buy you some kind of ‘thank you’ gift. You know, to show my appreciation for all the hard work you’ve put in. With Quentin.”

Quentin squawks, exclaiming, “I’m not an _actual puppy!”_ at the same moment Margo says, “A Birkin will do.”

Eliot nods sagely.

And they haven’t even had _time_ to really talk about the whole domming thing. Last night had passed in a hazy flash and this morning Quentin’s had about four mimosas so he’s a little tipsy. A little bold.

“Well if Margo’s getting a million dollar purse—” Quentin argues, just to be contrary, Margo rolls her eyes into her latte across the table. “Then I should get something, too.”

“Oh my god, I am literally doubling down on everything I said. He’s a brat now,” Margo chuckles. “Good luck with this one, El. You officially broke him. He’s gone full _baby_ in the span of one day.” But she nudges him gently in the shin with her foot and her eyes are warm so Quentin knows she’s happy for them, it just goes against her internal circumstance to show it.

“Okay, but seriously, you aren’t mad at me?” Quentin asks. Eliot’s hand tenses on Quentin’s shoulder and Quentin knows he’s worried about it too. It’s kind of a dick move to swoop in and steal someone’s sub when you were just supposed to be sharing. Not that Quentin’s not down to be shared in the future. Two doms is like consuming an edible and a bottle of wine in one night. It’s okay every once in a while but too indulgent and overwhelming for casual company. Quentin actually has a _life,_ and as much as he’d like to, he can’t just be strung out on Eliot’s dick and Margo weilding a hairbrush to his ass 24/7. “Since Eliot and I are on a date—are _dating,_ I guess. And he’s into the same stuff I am—” Quentin’s fully not going to get into the semantics of BDSM on a Saturday morning in a Manhattan bistro. “I’d like to try that out with him. So, um, just don’t be mad or hate me.”

There’s no succinct way to tell your domme that you want to call another guy ‘Daddy’, is there?

Margo sighs, wrapping both her hands around her coffee cup. She and Eliot showed up to brunch looking like fashion plates. Margo in a mod little purple dress with long sleeves and high boots under a wool coat. Eliot’s a bit more dressed down than yesterday, Quentin wants to stick his hand between his open vest and button down shirt with a few buttons undone, exposing his gorgeous throat. Quentin remembers what it felt like yesterday, to feel Eliot’s soft chest hair between his fingers and Eliot’s heartbeat speeding up as Quentin caresses his warm skin. He’d like to do it again when he’s not blissed out in the bathtub. Eliot’s sleeves are rolled up to the elbow and Quentin can’t stop staring because _forearms and hands._

“I’m not mad.” Margo shakes her head. “I’m _annoyed,_ but that’s pretty much my base emotion. I mean, I think it goes without saying but I won’t see you as much for scenes, which blows. But if you’re dating El, then you’re pretty much saddled with me being around _more._ And don’t expect me to stop ordering you around. You can keep your pants on, though.”

“I’d like that.” Quentin glances over at Eliot. He’s got stubble along his jaw and it’s really hard not to lick him since they’re out in public and they met _yesterday._ “I’d like to hang out more—not just so you can smack me around.”

“Yeah, okay, puppy.” Margo nods, a smile curling over her lips. “Just give me a call if this one—” She switches to her champagne flute and tips it in Eliot’s direction, “is too soft with you. I know how you get.”

Quentin blushes, “Jeez. Alright.”

But that has Eliot raising an eyebrow. “Obviously, Q and I have a lot to discuss privately. Limits and checklists. Though I think it’s safe to say we’re pretty _compatible.”_ He shifts towards Margo with a smirk that turns _devious._ Quentin’s stomach clenches. He can’t believe they’re talking last night so nonchalantly. This is why Margo had to pry all of his kinks out of him bit by bit. He doesn’t talk about this stuff. “But I’d gladly take any advice you have on looking after Quentin. Since you have such vast experience with his needs.” 

Quentin would like _very much_ to be at this discussion, on his knees, with his head in Eliot’s lap. Embarrassment, sticky and cloying spreads through him like the syrup on his plate. Yeah, he’d love to have to hear every little trick Margo’s learned about how to make Quentin squirm so that he can deny, deny, deny all he wants, ears burning with shame.

Margo tilts her head, smiling. “Yes, I think I can draw you up some instructions for the care and keeping of Quentin Coldwater.”

“That’s your last name?” Eliot grasps Quentin’s shoulders and holds him a little away, looking him up and down like he’s grown a third arm. “Quentin Coldwater?”

“Makepeace. Quentin _Makepeace_ Coldwater.” Margo crows, bopping her shoulders up and down in a little dance. “Isn’t it tragic?”

Eliot sighs, “See, this is why everyone should get to choose their own name when they turn 18.”

“I’ll get right on that,” Quentin grumbles.

“Don’t get all pouty, you know what it does to me,” Eliot chides, booping him on the nose. “But we should actually do the big limits talk and the paperwork. Sooner the better. Preferably over at my apartment with a cheeseboard.”

“Yawn.” Margo growls, chugging the rest of her mimosa. “I’m out of here. There’s a sample sale and I’m ready to fucking fight someone for a latex minidress.” She hauls out of the booth with her coat and purse, stopping to kiss Eliot on the lips and ruffle Quentin’s hair. “Bye, losers.”

“Bye Margo,” Quentin calls. “She’s not really pissed at me, is she?” He asks the moment Margo’s gone. 

His therapist doesn't exactly _know_ about Margo being anything more than a friend. She can know pretty much everything else about his life but the whole ‘I like being spanked and crawling around after Mistress’ thing was pretty much the only thing in his life that didn’t cause him internal conflict. Well, internal conflict that resulted in the best orgasms of his life. But now he’s running down in his head how he’s going to explain what just happened to his therapist without bringing the word ‘Daddy’ into play. Because she should probably know that Quentin’s dating someone and that everything seems to be moving much faster than normal. 

Can he just call Eliot his new special friend or something? 

No. That’s creepy.

“Margo’s a fierce bitch, her bark is worse than her bite.” Eliot waves a hand and then tops off their mimosas.

“You say that but I doubt she’s ever bitten _you_ that hard,” Quentin mutters. 

“You’d be surprised.” Eliot shrugs, his fingers keep curling in the hair at the base of Quentin’s neck. Heat ping pongs around inside Quentin’s chest. “Not all the time, but sometimes one needs to experience a bit of pain, Q. I know _you_ understand that.”

Quentin gulps some mimosa. Oh, Quentin’s _very_ familiar with the braindump of happy fun chemicals associated with pain. He sleeps like a _baby_ when Margo gives him a spanking. It’s better than a massage. But Eliot is so _composed_ and particular, Quentin doesn’t know what seeing him as the submissive in a scene would do to him. But Margo could like _order them to fuck for her._ However she wanted. That would be _guh._ Quentin’s not going to get hard in this bistro.

Eliot pets his hair and says out of the blue, “I won’t be offended if you still want to scene with her. You know that, right? I need Margo for pretty much everything. This can be more a fluid type of dating situation. If you want to carry on with her as your domme, I’ll just fantasize about it incessantly and ask for video, but I can deal.”

“We can talk about it later?” Quentin shrugs. “Maybe we can just—uh—get to know each other for a bit before we hammer stuff like that out. I could be a serial killer; you don’t know me.”

Eliot gives him a patronizing smirk, _“Could you?”_

“No, not really.” Quentin shakes his head, laughing. _“But,_ I don’t know. Maybe you’ll get annoyed by the way I chew my food or that it takes me hours to reply to texts. I get _super cranky_ when I’m hungry—”

“Alright, I reserve the right to be annoyed by the way you chew. But I’m not yet, so I’m still going to take you out for dinner this week.”

Quentin somehow doesn’t manage to intercept the check when it comes to the table, can only stare at his plate while Eliot casually hands the little clipboard back to his server with a sly grin, “Daddy’s got this one.” He pats Quentin’s knee under the table, a little patronizing.

_Fuck._

They have to leave before Quentin’s eye starts twitching with embarrassment..

Eliot’s a smoker, but he’s tall enough that he easily blows the smoke from his cigarette over Quentin’s head while they walk to the theater. It’s a pretty busy morning, Eliot links their arms to keep Quentin with him on the sidewalk and vanishes the butt of his cigarette with a flick of his fingers when they get to their destination, “After you.” He holds the door open for Quentin and they step inside.

It’s a dingy, run-down place. Quentin finds it charming that they have to switch to a different seat since Quentin’s has a spring sticking up that seems like tetanus waiting to happen. Eliot pulls him to the end of an aisle in the back by the projection booth. There can’t be more than 20 people for the showing including the two of them _and_ the projectionist.

“Cover me.” Eliot throws over his shoulder, holding out his jacket like Quentin knows what to do with it.

The trailers for a few arthouse movies and other throwback titles are playing on the screen. Quentin watches in the flicker of the lights as Eliot’s elegant hands twist into a few familiar tuts and _jesus,_ he’s expanding the one seat into two so it’s like a little love seat for both of them. Blood pumps in Quentin’s ears at the thrill of Eliot doing magic like this out in the open and he doubles down on the giddy feeling in his chest by the time he’s sitting beside Eliot with the other man’s arm over his shoulder, tucking him into his side.

Quentin’s fully intending on watching the movie. That is, until about ten minutes into the action when the champagne from brunch seems to catch up with Quentin all of a sudden and he’s feeling _mischievous._ Eliot’s so close and smells so nice. He’s warm and laughs at all the right parts, keeps up a low but appropriate amount of commentary that doesn’t annoy Quentin. He doesn’t flinch when Quentin puts a hand on his thigh, just lets out a sigh of contentment and somehow settles deeper into the ancient magical seat they’re crammed into.

“Hey,” Quentin leans up and whispers into Eliot’s ear. Eliot hums in response, looking down, his eyes changing color with every flash on the screen. “I ah—I wanna give you something. For your birthday.”

Eliot’s mouth curls and he looks around casually, like he’s stretching. There’s no one around them for at least 5 rows. _“Q._ I had no idea you were _actually_ a little slut.”

“You could put your jacket over me.” Quentin whispers, cheeks flaring. When he moves his hand up Eliot’s thigh, he’s rewarded with the shape of Eliot’s cock beginning to harden in his trousers. “You didn’t let me last night.”

Eliot’s eyes light up, he leans down and seals his lips to Quentin’s, capturing the little squeak he lets out. “Okay, but you have to be quiet for me, okay baby?”

Quentin’s panting already and he hasn’t done anything. He doesn’t make it a habit to play around with subbing when he’s under the influence. Margo had rules about that but this isn’t a scene; it’s just an act of public indecency. He’s just tipsy enough to say, “Yes, Daddy. I can put up a ward?”

Eliot shakes his head, “Let me. Just one to muffle everything, I still wanna watch the movie. And anyone could see you, so quiet as a mouse, yeah?”

He’s probably _too_ comfortable on his knees on the sticky floor of this old timey movie theater that definitely used to show pornos in the 70’s, but when Eliot’s wool peacoat falls over Quentin’s head and blocks out all the light, fills his every breath with the scent of Eliot’s musky cologne, a wave of contentment joins the nerves in his system. It’s so dark in here, he reaches for Eliot and makes his way by touch to the apex of his thighs where his dick is trapped against his thigh. He frames it with his hands, marveling to himself at how hot and solidly huge Eliot’s cock is through his clothes. Eliot’s knees press in closer to Quentin’s shoulders. It should be claustrophobic, make him feel trapped, but instead Quentin just leans over to mouth at Eliot through the fabric of his pants, so he can feel the dull sensation of Quentin’s lips, a bit of teeth.

Quentin lets himself play for a little while longer, until he’s left a wet mark on Eliot’s pants with his mouth and tastes the salty alkaline of Eliot’s precome through the fabric. He bites his lip to keep himself from moaning at the bitterness over his tongue while working on Eliot’s belt and zipper. Quentin pulls back the plackets of Eliot’s pants and gets hit full force with the musky scent of Eliot, his body wash, and something primal. Feeling for Eliot’s cock, Quentin wraps a hand around the base and marvels at how his thumb and pointer finger can’t even _touch._

A little sound tumbles out of his lips before he can stop himself and Quentin freezes, sure at that moment they’re going to be arrested and his dad will have to bail him out of jail. Like meeting Eliot in a threesome isn’t slutty enough, now he’s going to wind up arrested on their first date with Eliot’s dick in his mouth. What’s their third date going to be? Joining the Mile High Club? Sex in a bush in Central Park? Or against a plate glass window along the High Line?

A little light peeks into the cavern of Eliot’s coat, his hand dropping under to palm the back of Quentin’s head. Quentin reaches for Eliot’s wrist and guides it to the back of his neck where it stays after giving a little squeeze. Eliot’s hard-soled shoe taps a few times, impatient. Quentin smiles to himself and spits in his hand, using it to jack Eliot off a few times, get him slick, trying to memorize the curve of him by touch alone. He’s so warm, pulsing in Quentin’s hand. Quentin’s own dick is getting hard, uncomfortably pressing against the zipper of his jeans. Nervously, Quentin reaches down and carefully undoes his pants, sighing over the head of Eliot’s dick in relief. If he’s gonna get arrested, he might as well _also_ get to come.

There’s a hum building in Quentin’s brain. Not subspace, but a single minded focus that comes over him when he gives head. The power trip of holding something so delicate in his mouth, making the other person fall apart, letting them get him filthy. Quentin opens his mouth and sucks the head of Eliot’s cock inside, flicking his tongue against his slit and then against his frenulum until Eliot’s hand tightens on the back of his neck and he drools precome over Quentin’s tongue. He can’t go deep, can’t risk that he’ll gag himself on Eliot’s dick and cause a scene nearly hacking up a lung in the back row. Quentin jacks what he can’t reach, humming at the weight of Eliot in his mouth. His own hand glides over his dick, probably dripping all over the floor between his knees.

Quentin goes on like this until Eliot’s hand scrabbles to grip his shoulder, he hears the sound of Eliot’s heaving breaths, feels how close Eliot is in the tremble of his thighs. It makes Quentin’s balls draw up. He sucks harder, moves his hand faster up and down Eliot’s dick until his feet go up on his toes and there it is—pulse after pulse of come across Quentin’s tongue and he swallows all of it down gleefully. He’d be grinning if it weren’t for his mouth being stuffed full of Eliot’s cock.

Eliot’s body goes a bit limp, his knees fall out to the sides and the hand on Quentin’s shoulder just flops around until he finds Quentin’s head and pets his hair. Eliot lifts the peacoat a moment later, Quentin squints against the light of the projector overhead. He blinks owlishly around to see if there’s an usher with a flashlight. But there’s no one. The movie’s still playing. They’re not even storming the castle yet.

There’s just Eliot, staring down at Quentin, biting his lip and shaking his head a little back and forth. Quentin pecks a kiss to the side of Eliot’s softening erection, cheeky. He’s bereft when Eliot tucks himself back into his pants and hauls Quentin back up into his seat, draping his jacket over Quetin’s lap.

He comes with his own fist shoved in his mouth with Eliot’s tongue in his ear and his hand on his dick. Quentin closes his eyes tightly against the pleasure blooming through him. If they weren’t magicians, he’d have to pay for Eliot’s jacket to be dry cleaned. But they are magicians so Quentin leans back and catches his breath as Eliot cleans them up with a swift spell and puts him to rights. Eliot lifts the ward around them and the muffled audio of the movie comes back clear as day just in time for _“I’m not a witch, I’m your wife!”_ which Quentin always laughs at. Though not usually because he’s come drunk and there’s a beautiful man pulling his head down to rest on Eliot’s shoulder.

They walk back to the portal holding hands. Quentin’s basically stumbling and he can’t stop giggling. Eliot’s come is somehow laced with Special K. He just blew a hot guy who wears eyeliner casually on a Saturday afternoon. There’s a lot to giggle about.

“So what does a young, hot professor have planned for his Saturday night, then?” Eliot asks. He offered Quentin one of his smokes when they tumbled out of the theater at the end of the movie, and now Quentin’s fingertips are buzzing from the nicotine. Julia will be able to smell the guilt on him even weeks later. She’s a cigarette truffle pig.

“Grading papers,” Quentin shrugs, pushing his hair out of his eyes. There’s really not a thrilling answer he can offer.

“Sounds thrilling. Let me come over and you can do that _tomorrow.”_ Eliot nudges him. Eliot must really have kink for high strung super nerds if he’s looking to spend his entire weekend around Quentin.

Quentin snorts, “It’s um, kind of a lot actually. I’ll be up late. And then tomorrow I have to prepare my plans for the week.”

“Mmmm,” Eliot growls. It does stuff in Quentin’s pants region. “What if I promised to be the perfect houseguest, made you dinner and then shut up until you were done with your work.”

“I don’t know—” Quentin says. “There’s not like a lot of stuff to do around my place. I have a puzzle?”

“He has a _puzzle!”_ Eliot exclaims, clapping his hands. A woman walking her dog nearly jumps off the curb. “Quentin Makepeace Coldwater, I would _gladly_ feed you and then work on your puzzle until you’re done with your grading. Then maybe we could have a talk?”

Looking over at Eliot’s _beaming_ face, Quentin finds his excuses drying up in his throat, caught up in the idea of _more_ time with Eliot. He’s even looking forward to shoving all his secondhand IKEA furniture in Eliot’s face just to watch him have a fit over all of it. 

Maybe he’d expected last night to be like catching lightning in a bottle—magical but fleeting. But that’s not the case. Every little bit he learns about Eliot just has Quentin more and more curious, eager to learn more about him. So yes, he wants to see how annoyed Eliot will be that Quentin sleeps on a double mattress on the floor, wants to end up getting dragged to an Anthropologie outlet three states away to pick out a bed frame on a weekend.

Quentin just wants _more._

“A talk?”

“Yes, about your present. Since Margo’s getting something, I remember you insisting on a treat as well.”

“Eliot, I really don’t—” Quentin argues. “I was joking, you don’t have to buy me anything.”

“Honey,” Eliot's arm wraps around his waist and pulls him in, “who said _anything_ about spending money?”

 _“Ohhhhhhhhhhhhh._ So it’s like a sex thing.” Quentin shrugs, trying for nonchalant. Eliot raises an eyebrow, hair blowing in the October breeze picking up leaves and scattering them down the alleyway leading to the portal. “Then yeah, come over and enjoy my puzzle.”

Quentin holds out his hand. When Eliot slots his palm against Quentin’s, gives it a little squeeze, Quentin squeezes back. Six years ago Quentin stumbled down this alley the day of his test to get into Brakebills. It’s wildly different to lead Eliot to the gate, to the peculiar little garden in the middle of nowhere that's never been tended to. They walk through the portal together, spill out onto the Sea and into the permanent Summer sun of the Brakebills campus.

Eliot’s _horrified_ at the state of his A Frame, regardless of the view of the lake Quentin has.

“Put your union rep on the phone, right this moment, Q.” Eliot stands in the middle of the living area, hands on his hips looking like a pissed off great blue heron. “I went to a derelict bible camp in a cabin with better ventilation than this.”

And Quentin, who’s spent so much time genuinely worried about what people think of him in his life just ends up laughing and throwing himself into his couch next to the wood stove while Eliot pulls _measuring tape_ from the depths of his jacket and starts measuring the dimensions of the room. Quentin just pulls his stack of papers from the rickety coffee table littered with water stains and goes about grading his papers. Eliot complains and rants and talks about _contact paper —???—_and eventually they have dinner and _talk._ And somehow it’s domestic and thrilling and everything Quentin never thought he’d get, especially this early on in a relationship.

But some things are just meant to be.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I always appreciate your feedback in the comments! It warms my lil heart!


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